


whalebone

by beamkatanachronicles



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Repression, Voyeurism, if you've seen this movie you know how weird this is gonna be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-18 16:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamkatanachronicles/pseuds/beamkatanachronicles
Summary: The mermaid, made of old whalebone, is a poor substitute.
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 16
Kudos: 100





	whalebone

**Author's Note:**

> rpattz walked so the ao3 tag could run

By night, Winslow conjures her up into a real woman. But the mermaid, made of old whalebone, is a poor substitute. Her small body's stained to an off-white with age: scuffed and dirty in the grooves of her scales, her face faded near to blankness. He thumbs across her breasts, seeking the soft, slowly-stiffening give of a nipple, and finds only hard unyielding nubs. He traces over the scales again and again, imagining the hole-- a pulsing wet heat to fuck comfortably into-- meeting only his own calloused hand, fingers shuddering over his erection. Somehow, it's enough, every other night, to jerk himself to a shivering gasp of a climax. He could throw her out the window and into the sea, for how goddamn miserable it all is. A half-hearted orgasm on some godforsaken island, just to chase away the cold. It's all he's got. Besides the old man, that is.

And it stops being enough. Desperate, Winslow fucks her. He tries just cumming on her at first-- the fantasy of a pretty face, mouth open for him-- but it's not _enough_, he realizes, a bead of precum rolling off his slit and onto her chest. He rubs the head against her body, smearing stickily over her; in his mind's eye she sighs, breasts rising and falling, his seed spilled across her chest. Unsatisfied, he holds the figure, shorter than his own length, against his cock and thrusts up/into/against her. He tries to think, again, of warmth, of walls, a woman's insides. The mermaid holds out her hand, spreads wide, and takes him, her moans soft in his ear. The whalebone scrimshaw is harder than him and feels like something very different, he realizes, rutting into his hand and grunting low and ugly in his throat. His mind strays to the timber-fields, the unrelenting cold, the sweating goosebump-freckled bodies of men.

Winslow-- Tommy-- thinks of _Winslow_. He'd heard him masturbate in his bunk one night, the sound half-masked by men's snores. He whispered a name and came with a soft groan; he cleaned himself up with a dirty handkerchief, then rolled back over.

The aging springs of his bed creak under his/their weight. Tommy convulses and spurts hot into his hand.

\---

Tommy knocks the old man to the ground. Thomas grunts, low and ugly in his throat, but the sound's stopped up when Tommy yanks the leash, dragging him by the neck.

"Lad," he wheezes, scrabbling at the too-tight collar.

He doesn't feel like correcting him. He doesn't even know what name to correct him _with_ anymore. Tommy looks down at Thomas, pathetic and half-drunk and dirty. He remembers him masturbating in his bed one morning, the blare of the lighthouse's horn masking his groans but not blinding Tommy to the buck of Thomas' hips into the open air, his cock spurting messily over his gnarled fingers. He'd been above him then, too: Tommy never had repaired that broken bit of shingle on the ceiling: it was only fair, having his own point of vantage, when Thomas always had the whole damned lighthouse to himself. He rubs his growing erection, almost absently, and Thomas' eyes narrow.

"Lad," Thomas croaks, "were ye certain, then, that I was the dog?"

"No more fuckin' _lip_ out of ya, pup," Tommy spits. Desperate, already hard enough to hunger for relief, he sticks his hand into his trousers. He shivers in the cold, but pants with every jerk, every hurried twitch of his cock.

Thomas meets Tommy's eyes and laughs. It sounds like the night wind, rattling the boards of their shack every night. Still on his knees, he pulls himself out, stroking himself without breaking the gaze.

The lighthouse cries out in the distance. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. Beneath him, Thomas spills onto the floorboards, but as he cums, gasping for air, he sees only the blinding white.

**Author's Note:**

>   
ty for reading


End file.
